.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

The Saga of Kings, Book I: Hero

Written by,

Vile M.F. Slanders

.\./.\./.\./.\./.\./.

*T...T...T...T*

I-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-I

\_v_v_v_/

\-.-.**.-.-/

V-._.-V

\.^./

V

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo,

Aureli pathice et cinaede Furi,

qui me ex versiculis meis putastis,

quod sunt molliculi, parum pudicum.

nam castum esse decet pium poetam

ipsum, versiculos nihil necesse est;

qui tum denique habent salem ac leporem,

si sunt molliculi ac parum pudici,

et quod pruriat incitare possunt,

non dico pueris, sed his pilosis

qui duros nequeunt movere lumbos.

vos, quod milia multa basiorum

legistis, male me marem putatis?

pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo."

.

"I will sodomize and face-fuck you,

Aurelius, you cocksucker; Furius, you little bitch,

since you think that my little poems

have gone soft and I must not be too upright.

It's true; the devoted poet should stand erect

in his values, but not necessarily in his little

poems, which are truly witty and charming

when they're a little soft, and not too stiff,

but can still cause a little tingling-

I don't just mean for youth, but for hairy men

who can't make their own loins stand upright!

You! You read about my "many kisses"

and doubt I'm fully a man?

I will sodomize and face-fuck you.

-Gaius Valerius Catullus, one of the Neoteric Poets, in "Carmen XVI," his response to Marcus Aurelius Cotta Maximus Messalinus and Marcus Furius Bibaculus's criticism of "Carmen V." Born 84 BC in the province of Gallia Citerior. Died 54 BC, location unknown. Exalted hero to all poets.

-v-

Chapter X: Reconciliation (Part 2 of 3)

My Tact. pad's muffled humming roused me from a restless sleep. Shoving Mac's head off my lap, and grimacing at the puddle of Munchlax drool that had drenched the left leg of my pants, I made to intercept my communications device as it buzzed across the hotel's carpeting.

I glanced at the caller ID, and groaned.

-It was Fuck-Nutts with an early morning hail.

"Zane! We've got a problem!" I had only just tapped 'accept' and lifted the Tact. pad to my ear when Chris told me the last thing I wanted to hear.

"What is it?" I asked, a cold sensation rising from my chest.

"It's Indigo Four! They reschedule your interview-" Chris began, but I interrupted him with a snort.

-Why had I even taken Chris seriously in the first place?

"So what? Look, I don't care if it's two days from now or two weeks from now-" I yawned, but Chris seemed to think that I was the one who needed to take this call a bit more seriously.

"IT'S TODAY, YOU IDIOT!" Chris roared in my ear.

That killed my condescending yawn pretty damn quick.

"What-!?"

-Today?!

"-I just got the notification ten minutes ago! I already tried to negotiate for a later date, but Indigo Four insists that it has to be today! And that's not even the worst of it!" Chris sounded like he was gonna have an aneurism, and I was beginning to feel like I was gonna have a heart attack.

We had all of two hours of rehearsal under my belt, and I'd blown every minute of it on pissing Chris off!

"...Indigo Four switched hosts as well. You're not being interviewed by Sanandreas. They're pulling Taggart off his morning talk show to interview you, on a live broadcast." Chris's voice had gone faint, and a sudden surge of rage warmed the cold hollow forming in my chest.

"Taggart-?! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!" I spat into the mouthpiece.

"-I'm not joking around with you, Zane! The League is pulling a fucking gotcha on you! This whole thing reeks of a setup!" Chris was panicking, same as me.

"A gotcha?! What the fuck did I do to deserve a gotcha?!" Mac was waking up behind me, as I rifled through my kit for want of a pristine dress uniform.

"Oh, I don't know! Maybe they're fucking pissed about having to pay the insurance premium on the Cerulean Gym! Maybe they're still pissed about the scandal you pulled in Pewter! Or maybe they're fucking pissed at you for the whole legal fiasco going down in the League Registry over your Vermilion Gym Battle! Pick one! Or better yet, pick all three!" Chris was screaming at me like it was all my fault-

-Actually, it kinda was all my fault…

"...Oh fuck me…" I moaned, tugging on a fresh change of Class A slacks and fumbling with my brass coat buttons.

"...And they're cutting their attack dog loose on you. Zane, do you have any idea who Taggert is?" Chris asked in a shaking voice.

Oh yeah. I knew who Taggart is. Every Ranger does…

-And every single Ranger wanted to gut Taggart's ass alive before leaving him to die in the Frontier too.

David Ames Taggart. Shock jock fanatic, arguably the loudest propagandist on the loudest commercial media outlet. A self proclaimed Ranger-hating fucktard and mon-humping extraordinaire.

"I'm gonna disembowel that ignorant motherfucking sensationalist-" I growled, but a bleating Chris shushed that line pronto.

"THAT'S WHAT THEY WANT YOU TO DO! THAT'S WHY THEY SUBSTITUTED SANANDREAS WITH TAGGART! THEY'RE TRYING TO FRAME THE RANGERS, YOU IDIOT! DON'T EVEN FANTASIZE ABOUT HARMING A HAIR ON TAGGART'S HEAD!" Chris roared on his end, and I pulled the painfully loud Tact. pad away from my ear with a lightning reflex.

"...They're setting you up, Zane. Indigo wants you, and the Ranger Corps, out of their League, and this interview could provide them with the public condonation required to ban you and your branch from the competition for good. Don't play into their hands. When you get onto the stage, you need to be the spitting image of tolerance and courtesy, no matter what insult Taggart throws at you. He's going to hit you where it hurts the most, lie his ass off whenever it serves his purposes, and you need to just take it all with a smile on your face." Chris panted through the earpiece.

"I'm just supposed to just sit there and laugh at his fucked up jabs?! I'm supposed to pretend that this guy hasn't shat all over the Rangers since the day his programmed first aired?!" I spat on my end.

"THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO DO!" Chris was losing his head, but given that I couldn't even talk about my medical condition without hauling off and hitting someone, Chris had a damn good reason to lose his head.

Taggart would sooner talk about my mental condition than he would even think of bringing up my medical condition.

"...I can't do it." I told Chris in the calmest voice I could muster.

Truer words had never been spoken. I was already ragged furious, and I knew damn well that I didn't have half as much self control as I had bloodthirsty self-righteousness.

"You have to. Skipping the interview isn't an option. You have precisely two hours to get yourself to the studio. We're pretty busing prepping this place for Taggart's arrival, but we'll try and squeeze in one last rehearsal before air time. You need to prepare for the worst, because Taggart is going to be bringing the worst to the table. He can ruin you, Zane. Absolutely ruin you. All he has to do is press the right button, and he'll have his loose cannon of a Ranger caught on live television. Don't be Taggart's white whale. Now get your head ready for a skull fucking, and man the fuck up." Chris hung up without another word, and I was left staring at my silent Tact. pad, rendered utterly helpless.

I stared at that goddamn Tact. pad for ten minutes straight, before my eyes snapped to the sleeping Munchlax on the floor of my hotel room.

"...I can't do it…" I whispered to Mac in a broken voice.

…

Chris's rented studio was awash with activity. I'd previously thought that TH owned a carnival of servants and luggage, but the Eidolon King's couriers and baggage was absolutely nothing compared to the kit of an Indigo sponsored talk show host.

Taggart's cadre staffed somewhere between fifty and sixty assistants, from cosmetologists and wardrobe organizers, to audience coordinators, lighting specialists, wire-runners, audio techs, and cameramen.

There was a literal tower of of crated gear sitting in the street outside the studio, and Indigo Pidgeots with payloads under wing were still being escorted in by Vermilion's Striker Class Skarmories.

But that was just the staff and the business appliances. There was a fricken rave at the main door of the studio, as audience hopefuls and Taggart fans rallied to the scene just to purchase their official Taggart-branded apparel and signed posters of their hero.

And one of those posters was plastered on the staff entry door of the studio, capturing Taggart in his iconic stern faced and finger pointing poise above the patriotic colored catchphrase of his show.

"Seize the Truth"

-The veritable battle cry of an expansive caste of sofa-warriors.

Ignoring the poster, I entered the studio's rear access, damn near bowling over Lt. Roscoe on his way out for a smoke break.

"Lieutenant." Roscoe waited for me to salute his senior self, before opening the door to the studio's green room, and following me into Chris's makeshift rehearsal room.

"How long do we have before Taggart arrives?" I grumbled to Roscoe.

"He's already here." Roscoe answered in an expressionless voice.

"...You see him yet?" I asked in an undertone.

"Are there handcuffs on my wrists?" Roscoe asked, raising his unbound forearms to eye level.

-That was a 'No'.

"...How am I gonna play this?" I whispered.

"You're asking me?" Roscoe snorted, cracking his knuckles.

"I'd ask TH at this point." I hissed in an undertone.

"It'd still be your cross." Roscoe shook his head in disgust, clearly perturbed by my admission.

"Roscoe, do me a favor: knock me the fuck out now." I begged from the bottom of my pitiful heart, and good'ol Roscoe just laughed like I'd just made a joke.

"I don't envy you one bit. But if you want my advice? View this as another S-class mission. You've got a suicidal job to do, and it's gotta get done." Roscoe assumed a more serious air for his coaching, and I shuddered on a worried breath.

"...Then you might want to hold on to this for me." I swallowed, unclasping Doug's knife from the bandolier hidden beneath my coat.

Roscoe accepted my knife with a severe look in his eye.

"I'm not even gonna ask why you thought it was a good idea to bring this on stage…" Roscoe whispered darkly.

Truthfully? That knife was a comfort thing. But after thinking about why Doug's knife was comfort thing to me…

...Yeah, that knife and its capabilities weren't quite so comforting in this situation.

"Where the hell is Chris?" I grumbled.

"Being held up by Taggart's crew. Something to do with the proper exposure of ambient lighting or some such bullshit." Roscoe muttered.

"You the only Blackhat here?"

"Yup. Lt. Col Rionaldo grounded my ass for disciplinary. Punishment for dumping piss off the side of Tisiphone as we flew over downtown Saffron. Lt. Col Dickbag just doesn't have the sense of humor he once did." Roscoe grumbled.

The room was silent for a moment, as Roscoe's confession sank into my shaken demeanor. But when I could finally render the faculties required for speech, I only had one thing to say to the grumpy Blackhat before me.

"You're a sick fuck, Roscoe."

And an amused snort was all that I received in reply.

Cue a flustered Chris bursting into the green room. What a timely moment to wrap my debriefing up.

One look at the hopeless expression on my face told Chris everything he didn't want to hear. Taking his time to access his approach, Chris let me simmer in brooding silence.

"...Okay-" Chris began on a winded note.

"-No." I cut him off dead.

"Zane, you need to-"

"Just shut the fuck up, Chris. I don't know if I'd rather puke or break something right now, and you're not making the decision any easier."

Just let me have the silence. Let me savor the calm before the storm.

"...You will comply with Mister Lebreau's directives, Ranger. Regardless of your current state of mind." Roscoe growled from the backdrop.

This circus was being treated like a fucking Ranger Op? Could've fooled me.

"Lay it on him, Chris. If Zane can live through a Snorlax attack, then he can live through a Taggart encounter." Roscoe prompted my hesitant PR Agent into speaking.

"...Zane, I'm not going to sugar coat this. We're looking at a shitshow. Open house studio; live broadcast; short notice; plenty of hype. And I just finished grilling Taggart's script consultant. He's done his homework on you. Taggart knows all your weak spots, and we all know that's all he's going to talk about." Chris audibly swallowed, and I struggled to maintain the dignified bearing expected of an officer of the Corps.

"Taggart is going to push every button you have. He's going to do his damndest to trigger you. You need to keep your head on during the assault, but we can't have you deferring to submission either. When Taggart hits you, you hit back. He's a propagandist and a sensationalist, so his greatest weakness is fact. Correct Taggart when he spews his garbage, and do not address the crowd should they boo you out. Open house means all are welcome, and there are a lot more Taggart supporters than Ranger supporters in quiet downtown Vermilion." Chris took a deep breath, and I forced myself to view this pep-talk as a Spec-Ops debriefing.

"Keep your head in the game. Remember: people are watching you. Everything you say and do will reflect on the Ranger Corps. You're as good as a spokesperson for your division. People will judge the Rangers as fiercely as they judge you. Now I wanted to get a last minute rehearsal in, but Taggart's not giving us any ground. He's arranged for a backstage meet and greet with the audience, claims it's to drum up viewer count. Taggart is talking to his crowd, and you're expected to talk with your crowd. So put on a happy face. We're just forty-five minutes from air time. I'll meet you at the prompter's box in forty minutes." Chris swallowed hard, and made to leave the green room.

"...The fuck am I even doing here, Roscoe?" I asked after Chris had vacated the premise.

"Getting the officer's crash course in learning how to suck up to command. Congratulations Second-Lieutenant. Welcome to the high class." Roscoe grunted, as he stifled his cigar.

…

Three people.

In a studio designed to accommodate two-hundred and fifty spectators, only three of those seats were occupied by folks who wanted to exchange pleasantries with the Fucking Bastard.

I was just beginning to understand how underhanded and manipulative showbiz really is.

The main attraction for my backstage pass was one scowling Ranger and a moody Blackhat.

The main attraction for Taggart's backstage pass was a broadcasting icon, complimented by live music entertainment, autographs, paraphernalia, expensive catering, and a host of super-modelesque wait staff.

Taggart even had more sofas than we did.

Given the amount of organization and expenditure on Taggart's part; it wasn't to hard to figure out that this had been planned well in advance. Just securing five-star cuisine and a gig with the local talent took a bare minimal of a two-week reservation notice.

We, on the other hand, had only a two hour notice, and we were spending every second of it in preparation for a reaming.

There wasn't even enough time for Chris's staff to order take out for the three sorry sons of bitches that I was charged with entertaining.

Fortunately, Roscoe had brought plenty of beer, so our crowd of three wasn't all that unhappy.

Unfortunately, Roscoe hadn't brought enough party favors to warrant anything other than a discrete dispersion of the yeast, so we couldn't exactly advertise our one and only benefaction to the entire studio.

Taggart had us by the short and curlies. We looked woefully unprepared for this interview, because that was exactly what we were.

But the public didn't know about Indigo's nasty little scheme, so as far as appearances were concerned…

...Indigo maintained a notable advantage over us.

Then there was our expectations.

We'd been led to believe that I'd be introducing myself to Sanandreas, Indigo's gorgeous and well-spoken anchor-woman. It was supposed to have been a casual introduction. Hi, my name is Zane; I'm a Ranger; this what I do in the Ranger Corps; this is how you can contribute to the Ranger Corps…

...Our talking points had been designed in expectation of a civil and informative encounter.

Instead, I was mentally preparing myself for being interrupted every time I tried to answer a question, and having accusations shouted over my every outspoken defense.

To make it worse, if I actually did manage to keep my cool and make Taggart's argument look foolish, he'd just cut my mic, and continue to scream accusations at defenseless me.

I'd seen Taggart's show before. The man was a religion short of a televangelist. Taggart's crowd didn't necessarily love Taggart for his brusque tactics and sensationalism…

...Taggart's crowd loved him because he empowered their ideology, and vindicated their beliefs.

Fanaticism. That's what kept Taggart's show on the air, and there was so much fanaticism in xenophobic Kanto, that Taggart's show was listed as one of the most successful talk shows aired this decade.

And now it was my turn to be demonized and dehumanized by a man blinded by his own ego.

I fucking love my job.

I rendezvoused with Chris outside the designated location. The cameras were already rolling, David Taggart was seated on his cushy sofa, the audience's racket had already been subdued by the Audience Coordinators, and we were all just waiting for Indigo's mother station to uplink with the live feed from Vermilion.

"How'd it go?" Chris asked in a low voice, never taking his shutter-shade covered eyes off of Taggart.

"Made three new friends. Which is three more than I thought I was gonna get." I replied. Chris shook his head in dismay.

"...I feel responsible for this." Chris muttered in an undertone.

I wasn't gonna say anything to contest Chris's guilt. I really wanted Chris to shoulder the blame. I already hated him, so what was there to lose in blaming him?

"Zane, just promise me you'll get through this, okay? Next time I make the arrangements, I'll double down on the contracts and hire extra lawyers just to prevent this from ever happening again." Chris was practically begging me, which was only sparking a note of irritation in my shaken demeanor.

"...How bad would it look if I punched Taggart in the dick?" I asked in a jocular tone, inciting a predictable panic response from Chis.

"...It was a joke, asshole. Keep your skirt on." I grumbled over Chris's nonsensical jabbering.

That admission seemed to calm my PR agent more than it did me.

"...Our mutual friends gonna bail us out?" I asked Chris in an undertone.

"This is my department, Zane. I'm the best in the business at what I do. High Command expects me to keep this situation contained, which is why I'm so damn worried about you." Chris shot me a glare.

"...You want to punch me in a rehearsal? I can handle that. You trying to gut a nationally acclaimed presenter on a live broadcast? That might be outside my expertise. Let's not find out today, okay?" Chris's cool was waning as mine failed. Gritting my teeth in anticipation, I straightened my shoulders and stiffened my back.

"Good morning, Sanandreas. This is David Taggart from Taggart's Truth. We are broadcasting live from beautiful Vermilion Bay-" A sudden announcement from the stage brought a shrill cheer from the crowd, and David Taggart spread his arms to the crowd with a smile, basking in all their praise.

"-And we have a very special guest who we'll be questioning today, if the audience will join me in welcoming Second-Lieutenant Zane Bastard of the Ranger Corps…" Taggart turned to face me for the first time, a bored expression worn on his face as his palms clapped out a slow introduction for your's truly.

I took to the stage without a word or a second look to Chris, and walked right into the baking spotlights.

Marching my way towards my designated sofa, I maintained a stoic expression and a disciplined poise as I stepped directly into the Brink.

David Taggart was relatively young for an Indigo talk show host. Though he'd just entered his forties, Taggart looked older than most people his age. Crisp greying hair was professionally kept in check by products more expensive than gold on the market. The makeup on his face discretely disguised any discolorations or blemishes of the skin, save for the sharp wrinkles that fanned out across his cheeks and forehead whenever Taggart smiled. Puffy sockets enhoused brilliantly blue eyes, faux lenses worn to offset Taggart's rather plain features. A five-thousand Sandz tailor cut suit handsomely hid Taggart's bulging belly and flabby chest from every camera angle, and a watch worth twice as much as the suit festooned the left wrist of my host.

To call Taggart a toad would've been a slight against all amphibians. Refraining from sneering when I met his sly eyes required more effort than I was capable of. Turning the rising corner of my mouth into a dangerous grin, I ended Taggart's applause by seizing his hand, and firmly shaking it in a curt gesture.

Just enough pressure to invoke pain; not enough time to permit for Taggart's reflexive recoil.

The audience's clapping ended, and a low chorus of boos sounded out as I took my seat. Taggart raised his eyebrows at me as I made a scene out of testing the upholstery of my chair, bouncing in my seat for want of a snug fit.

"...Quite the handshake, Lieutenant." Taggart's voice subtly implied a grudge, as he wrung the fingers of his right hand in the camera's blindside.

"I'm well known for my handshakes, Taggart. I always aim to make my first introduction the last introduction."

If there were Rangers sitting in the audience, they would've been whistling and cheering for my bravado. But as it was, the tough ass implication of my opening statement went right over the civis' heads.

I would've felt awkward at the audience's silence, but I was too busy ignoring all the screaming going down in my head. Taggart hadn't missed my insinuation, and his gloating look was informing me that I was dog meat to his palate.

...Tell you what, Taggart: let me put a knife in your hands. Let's see how well you fare in a one on one. Don't worry, I won't use my knife… Wouldn't need one to end your greasy ass anyways…

"So I understand that you have a Gym battle coming up within the month. A Gym battle with a national hero, no less. How do you think you're going to fare against Vermilion's legendary Lieutenant Surge?" Taggart asked me in a business like manner, but I could smell the trap he'd laid with that seemingly benign question.

...Don't get cocky, don't insult Lt. Surge or his fanbase, don't alienate the military, and do not start strangling Taggart's triple-chinned neck-

"I can already tell it's gonna be a rough ride. Lt. Surge is no slouch in the League, and he's well versed in my line of thinking. Both of us come from similar professions; both of us look at conflict a bit differently than most people do. This isn't going to be another gym battle. This is going to be a war." I replied in a deathly serious voice.

"So you consider yourself an equal to Lt. Surge then?" Taggart smugly asked, and the audience's boos drowned me out before I could even open my mouth to answer.

"...Hardly an equal." I carried on when the crowd had finally quieted some. Taggart was grinning at me in the most condescending way imaginable.

"Lt. Surge has decades of experience on me, both in the League and in the service. To say he maintains the advantage in our coming match is an understatement; but to rule out the possibility of some of my wildcard antics paying off? A military leader as seasoned as Lt. Surge knows better than to underestimate me." I replied with due honesty, and the audience's silence told of their concession to my reasoning.

Taggart was still in the lead, but I'd just scored a point. No one was gonna touch me for that one-

"-Let's talk about these wildcard antics of yours. Starting with your Pewter City Gym match." Taggart smirked at me, and my single point tally went back to zed.

"Records of the event indicate that you were cited for kiting, an illegal tactic where a challenger deploys a pokemon from a combat classification higher than the challenger's division rank. In this particular case, you deployed an Onix belonging to a classification two whole ranks above your division. That sounds like cheating to most people, Lieutenant. However did you earn the Boulder Badge during that sham of a match?" Taggart asked with a sleazy smile, and his crowd began to boo me again.

"It was a sham, and Brock Aissatou can attest to that. I come from the Corps, Taggart. We have a different Trainer accountability program than the one employed by the League. I have been trained and certified for the deployment of D5CUs, or Delta-Five-Counter-Units; the heaviest of artillery in the armed forces. This equates to the League's qualification level of "Championship Trainer." I proved this to Brock during my Gym battle against him, and the Pewter City Gym Leader was both intelligent and innovative enough to not only recognize my credentials; but to also bump me up two whole League ranks so as to legalize the competitive deployment of my D5CU." I could feel my neck shaking. The phrasing of Taggart's questions were already getting under my skin.

But discrete accusations were too subtle for Taggart's average fan. They wanted to be told what to think, not left to figure out what had been implied. I knew that Taggart was going to switch tactics sometime during the interview…

...I just didn't think he'd do it so soon.

"That is a blatant lie, and you know it!" Taggart was suddenly animated in his chair, finger jabbing towards my coordinates, face twisting with anger.

And his crowd was right there beside him with all of that pent up fervor. The rallying cheer that followed Taggart's accusation was as loud as any I'd heard in the Cerulean Gym. Nobody watching this broadcast wanted to know a damn thing about Zane Bastard.

They'd only tuned in to see him bleed.

"...What part was a lie?" I asked, challenging Taggart and his audience with a Ranger's dead-eyed grin.

"You should've been thrown out of the League for cheating! If anyone else had tried to kite their way through a Gym battle, they would never have been allowed to touch a pokedex again-!" Taggart began, but I decided to employ his own tactics against him, and cut him off with a smirk.

"-Actually, the penalty for kiting is a six-month suspension from competition, but I wouldn't expect you to know that."

If you thought I was in the red before the interview…

...Well motherfucker, I am the Guns of Navarone now.

Shots had been fired. Taggart's crowd was giving me their loudest boo yet, and I was content to sit back and smirk at my grinning adversary, basking in both his idiot fans' ire and Taggart's carefully practiced calm.

"I know a lot more about League policy than you do, Lieutenant-"

"-Sure you do. Corporations tell their shareholders everything. The rest of us get to foot the bill whenever corporate empires neglect to inform us of their policies."

The audience's boos were now replaced with catcalls. I'd broken even with Taggart's score in a stunning double hitter.

Go ahead and call me a cheater. But don't forget, your record proves that David Taggart is a corrupt and greedy asshole.

And if you're gonna call my character into question…

...Then it's only fitting that I fight fire with fire.

"You want to continue discussing the League, Lieutenant? I think that's a great idea. Let's ask the audience if it's a great idea. Does everyone here want to hear about Zane's competition records in the League?" Taggart addressed the audience, and a mob answered him with a chanted yes.

"Pristine. Never lost a match." I boasted, fluffing the collar of my Class A with a cocky smirk.

"...The Cerulean City Gym. What happened to it?" Taggart asked, his voice going lethal with intent.

"Oh that? I just got into a fight with the earth. The earth lost, naturally." I was trying so hard not to chuckle. If it wasn't for my racing heart rate and throbbing temples, I might've been able to convince myself of the I don't give a fuck attitude that I was currently exuding.

"Six million Sandz in accrued damages, and that's just the League's condemned facility. You devastated Cerulean City's infrastructure with that stunt. There are families in the central precinct without functional plumbing because of you-"

"-Thank God the damages were contained to the wealthy central precinct. So a couple billionaires have to fly their private fleets out to Hoenn in order to take a shower now. Do real people actually care about the upper class's dignity?"

Holy fuck. There were people in the audience who were actually cheering for me after that one. I'm giving myself an extra point just for that.

"So you attacked the successful for being successful? Don't you think that's a little petty? A little juvenile? Should I say… a little radical?" Taggart posed, an ugly twist curling one corner of his mouth.

"Depends on what you consider success. If you draw the line at owning more than everyone else does, your subjective definition of success is morally fulfilled. But if you choose to look at how the successful became subjectively successful… Well let's just say that I don't consider getting away with murder something worth lauding over." I replied, a nasty grimace rising on my own face.

"Are you oblivious to the fact that you're a hypocrite?! Everything you've just said incriminates your League records! You've been successful at getting away with murder from day one, and I'm not just talking about the League either!" Taggart was shouting at me. Too bad for his paltry intimidation tactics, I'd been exposed to far scarier, meaner, and louder drill sergeants in the service. That shit may work on fourteen year old girls suffering from an identity crisis, and it may piss off motherfuckers that are smarter than you, Taggart…

...But I'm not your average victim. I'm immune to that bullshit, because I'm a whole lot better at it than you are.

"Really? How far back have I been getting away with murder?" I eagerly took the bait, knowing full well where Taggart's line was taking me.

Go ahead and call me a womanizing, pokemon murdering, wise-cracking drunkard. Put it on a badge, so that I can wear it proudly-

"-According to your service record, you've been quite literally getting away with murder since you transferred to Viridian Outpost." Taggart dropped that bombshell with the meanest smirk yet.

-Not what I had been expecting to hear.

"...You've piqued my curiosity. Just what do you know about my service record in the Corps?" My voice had fallen to its lowest octave. My very breath was daring Taggart to step into a field that he knew absolutely nothing about-

"...I know that you have yourself a pretty gruesome Ranger death count in the Corps. The casualties claimed under your leadership are rather excessive, given that you've been in a position of command for less than a year."

I don't know how Taggart was able to smirk at me when he said that.

The whole goddamn world went silent, save for a humming ring in my ears.

I was cold, frozen stiff; unable to comprehend this situation or how everything previously discussed had led up to this.

The scoreboard was forgotten. The audience was just blotches speckled with eyes and and vibrant colors in my peripheral vision. Unoccupied space seemed to blur around the only object of interest, as his greasy smile widened, fully exposing his tobacco stained teeth.

"What did you just say?" My voice stirred the intense calm that the universe had assumed, and my mouth's every movement felt hot and heavy.

-Why was the ringing only getting louder?

"Eight months ago, on your thirty-sixth mission in special operations, you and two other Rangers in your detachment were charged with the tactical elimination of Viridian's Ursaring population; or the murder of newly-born Teddiursa cubs, horrifying as that practice is; when your Commanding Officer died during an unforeseen Stantler incursion. Care to tell us how your Commanding Officer died?" Taggart asked, his nasty grin never lessening.

Doug died in my fucking arms, during one of the most personal and painful moments of my life. The man was closer to me than my own father ever was. Why would I share that sacred burden with the likes of you-?

"...I find your silence compelling. Regardless of whatever killed Captain Douglas Fitzgerald, I'm sure that you had no meaningful role in it." Taggart's sarcasm seemed so wrong. How could he even say something like that? Just what was he trying to imply-?

"Let's move this into recent events. Let's talk about the events of four months ago, during the Venomoth's annual courting season in Viridian. I understand that you took command of a unit deployed to sector Delta? A unit, whose numbers were cut down to a third of their original personnel count during their campaign in Sector Delta?" Taggart grinned.

"Those Rangers were already dead by the time I got to a scrub station! I led a fucking rescue effort, not the original detachment-!" Taggart motioned to the left stage, and the speakers promptly stopped playing my voice.

Taggart had just cut my mic.

"This is a live broadcast, Zane, so I'm going to have to ask you to mind your language." Taggart's voice was riddled with smug, and the audience just laughed at my galled expression.

-How was this even funny?! Taggart wasn't telling the whole story! He wasn't even telling the true story! What the hell was going on-?!

"Now that you've given me a chance to speak, why don't we discuss another lovely little blemish in your service record, perhaps the most telling record of your service to the Corps. Let's discuss your first command. Let's discuss Echo Squad." Taggart leaned across the sofa and stared me in my disbelieving eyes.

The floor had fallen away from the world, and I was left floating in the vacuum, overcome with a stupor.

-Don't you fucking dare.

"This is by and far, the most tragic military record I've ever seen. A six man unit, well equipped, well trained, and known to you personally left Viridian Prime Outpost with an auspicious mission into sector Charlie six months ago. A six man unit under your command, known as Echo Squad. Three days after leaving Viridian Prime outpost, every member of Echo Squad was pronounced KIA by the Corps obituary. Every member of Echo Squad, save for one… You." Taggart settled back into his chair with a sigh, while I just gaped at him.

"Everywhere you go, everything you do, everyone you touch… just seems to die, Lieutenant. Though I don't merely question your culpability, Zane… I question the culpability of the entire Corps. When they place their units under the custody of inexperienced and incompetent commanders, people will inescapably end up dead." Taggart gestured to the left stage again, and a buzz at my mic indicated that he'd returned my right to speak.

But I had nothing to say. I couldn't believe this was happening. The anger, the hurt, the sorrow… it was all gone.

All I felt was a fear. A fear I never wanted to know.

...The same fear I'd felt back when the Snorlax had bitten Pete in two…

"...How can you even sleep at night, when you have so much blood on your hands?" Taggart asked the shellshocked me.

And I answered him in the only way I could. I answered Taggart the same way I'd answered the Snorlax when he'd subjected me to that awful and helpless fear…

Things happened so suddenly that I was barely conscious of the progression of events. One moment, I was feeling something warm and wet pooling in my eyes…

...The next moment, Taggart was underneath me, his back pinned to the floor.

And I was putting my best effort forth into silencing and exterminating a callous monster, my fists flying into his meekly defended face, obscenities and death threats screamed amidst a torrential storm of spit and tears. Blood was flecking my Class A's olive collar and my tear streaked chin, as I pulverized the monster that had dare to make shit of my Echo...

...And then someone tried to stop me, but I didn't recognize a person when I retaliated.

I just saw another piece of the same monster, and I attacked it in kind.

Someone stronger and better versed in combat than me stepped into the slaughter, and Roscoe dragged my screaming ass off a flailing camera technician, before hauling my still livid form to the backstage.

Roscoe was shouting my name over the animalistic howls flying from my shredded lungs, but I couldn't hear a goddamn word.

The moment an opening presented itself, I took the swing. I earned my liberation with a single blow to Roscoe's mouth, bouncing his head off the wall I'd bodily driven him into.

Before Roscoe could even pick himself up off the ground, I'd disappeared. Disappeared from the cameras, the lights, the studio, and the world.

And I didn't want to find myself.

...Because then I'd have to face everything that I'd done.

…

I came to at a lonely terrace on Vermilion's naval wharf; eyes dried, throat raw, and knuckles thoroughly busted.

I'd been there yet again, mulling over the event, looking at it from other angles, trying to figure out how I could've saved them…

...But like a disease, the memory of my helplessness kept dragging me backwards in time, forcing me to relive that day from a singular perspective.

I couldn't keep going there. I couldn't keep asking what if. I couldn't find a solution to a problem that had already been irrevocably resolved.

I couldn't save them. If I could've, then I would've.

I had to stop going back…

...But it was waiting for me, every time I closed my eyes. Every time the adrenaline hit. Every time I saw someone hurt. Every time I was hurt…

Like an Echo, it just kept coming back...

Then I realized why that sound wasn't going away. My Tact. Pad was ringing.

...What did my Tact. Pad have to do with Echo anyways?

"Lieutenant Bastard reporting." I answered the hail without even checking the caller ID.

Then I made to hurl that loathsome little device straight into Vermilion Bay.

"If you throw that Porygon into the ocean, there isn't a force on earth that's gonna save your ass." Captain Lewis's tone was aught but stern caution on her end.

I paused mid toss, and reluctantly brought the Tact. pad back to my ear with a shaking hand. But I couldn't say a thing.

"...You had better be on the other end of this call, Ranger." Captain Lewis sounded worried. I could just make out the racket of a minor scuffle going on in the background.

Someone was trying to take the phone away from Captain Lewis, and she wasn't letting them have it.

"...Lieutenant Zane Bastard, reporting in sir." My numb voice muttered into the mouthpiece.

The sounds of the scuffle ended abruptly, and Captain Lewis's voice returned to my ear.

"You fucked up, Zane."

-Tell me something I don't know.

"...I don't care." I replied with a hollow voice.

"You cared enough to punch Taggart in the face during a live broadcast. How are we going to fix this now?" Captain Lewis hissed.

"Can't fix it..." I muttered, kicking a pebble through the port fence and into the sea.

"-What?" Captain Lewis spat.

"It's broke. It's always been broke. And it always will be broke…" My mouth was moving of its own accord, but I couldn't care. I couldn't feel anything, except the most wretched sensation of hopelessness that I'd ever known.

"Start speaking sense, Ranger." Captain Lewis ordered, and all I could do was feebly shake my head.

"...I'm no Ranger. Rangers aren't broke…"

I was too overcome by despair to restrain the fear.

"...Zane…" Mary Lewis's watery voice brought a shudder to my breath.

Someone was talking in the background on the other end of Captain Lewis's call. I heard a hand cover the mouthpiece, and for a moment, I was afraid that I'd lost her.

But then, the the scrape of digits dragging across the opposite mouthpiece brought my Captain back to me, and urgency had reinforced her voice.

"I'm sending you a link. You need to see this. And you had better start praying, Zane… You had better start praying that Chris can turn this around." Mary Lewis whispered her own prayer when she told me that.

Three seconds later, a beep on my Tact. pad alerted me to Captain Lewis's uplink, and after I'd peeled the screen from my cheek, I selected the receive notification tab.

A video started playing on my Tact. pad. A video from a familiar studio. A live broadcast being hosted by two familiar faces.

Sitting in the same green sofa that I had previously occupied, was a baby-faced china doll wearing a red leather suit coat and a neon orange scarf. And in the opposite brown sofa, was a salt and peppered black and blue mess, the white of his suit stained red with rivulets of diffusing blood.

Lebreau and Taggart, carrying on the interview that I had excused myself from with a one-sided fistfight.

"You alright there, Taggart?" Chris asked in the jolliest voice you ever did hear, one big boyish smile worn teasingly on his painted face.

"I'm fine. Zane hits like a girl." Taggart slurred his insult, and my knuckles went white on the Tact. pad's reinforced casing.

"Yeah, I know some girls that can hit as hard as Zane can too. Hurts like a sonnova bee, doesn't it?" Chris turned Taggart's macho bullshit against him with a misogynist insinuation.

Little wonder why a handful of women in the audience gave a cheer for Chris.

"He's a rabid animal! No wonder why the Ranger Corps has fallen from grace when they make delinquents like that into Officers!" Taggart countered, and a series of rallying jeers followed.

Taggart's crowd loved it whenever their icon took a shit on the Ranger Corps.

Chris was completely unfazed by the difference in support. Sitting back in the sofa with that pleasant smile, Lebreau raised his waxed eyebrows with a smirk, and lackadaisically indicated Taggart's blood soaked attire with a fluttering fingertip.

"You have something on your shirt, Taggart." Chris teased.

Taggart could only glare at Chris as a chorus of minor laughs sounded from the audience.

"You think?" Taggart spat, as he peeled away the bloody rag on his nose.

"Don't take this the wrong way: but you look pretty comical right now." Chris led his choir with a politely repressed chuckle, and a couple of catcalls aimed at Taggart punctuated the giggles.

"Did you see what he did? I can't believe that happened on a live broadcast. What was Zane thinking? Did he really believe that he could get away with it?!" Taggart drummed up his crowd with the same fiery accusations that had made his show so appealing.

"Yeah, I saw what happened. Anyone with ears could hear it coming. And I honestly can't believe that you did that to a disabled vet." Chris's friendly tone died out to a patronizing disappointment. Taggart's crowd started booing Chris, and their blowhard of an idol puffed himself up with their adoration.

"What I did? What did I do to deserve this?" Taggart asked with that sickeningly smug voice of his.

"Zane might have overreacted, but you deserved at least one punch for framing your interview like that." Chris was unsullied by the loudest jeer against him yet. He sat there on that sofa with a disapproving look at Taggart and an unwavering countenance.

"It's really suggestive that you think that, Chris…" Taggart had finished shooting me to shit, and now he was leveling both of his barrels on my PR agent. And my PR agent could only sigh and shake his head at Taggart's thinly veiled threat, as though Chris were patiently dealing with an ornery child.

"Why did you phrase your question like that, Taggart? My jaw hit the floor when you asked Zane that question. I still can't believe that you swung that low." Chris shook his head as he covered his mouth with a hand, and his eyes widened with exasperation and shame.

"The people deserve to know!" Taggart rumbled with his catchphrase, and his crowd followed it with a warcry.

But there weren't anywhere near as many voices citing Taggart's favor as there had been before. The warcry abruptly cut off to a smattering of off-keyed voices when the mob realized that they weren't screaming with the majority anymore.

"...You're absolutely right, Taggart. The people deserve to know. So I'm going to let them know what you neglected to tell them about all the Rangers who have died around Zane. Starting with Captain Douglas Fitzgerald." Chris's weary voice ended with a resounding hush from the audience. Even Taggart froze stiff in his seat.

"Captain Douglas Fitzgerald was a Ranger of thirty years unbroken service. He served his nation in the Wheezing outbreak that threaten Viridian twenty-three years ago, and he earned the Ranger's Ray and Star for exceptional leadership and commitment to duty during that campaign." Chris paused in his account to let those meaningful accolades set in. A droplet of water splashed against the Tact. pad's screen when I remembered my dearly departed Doug, and what he still meant to me.

"Captain Douglas was one of Viridian's most decorated officers. He answered calls normally reserved for the Black Berets, and he protected his nation and its people with more courage than anyone in this studio could even hope to match. Captain Douglas trained some of the finest Rangers to have come out of the Pewter-Viridian districts during his thirty years of service, and do you know what Captain Douglas Fitzgerald had to say about his final protege, Zane Bastard?" Chris paused again, and glared at Taggart, as if that cunt should've known the answer.

"...Don't you dare, Chris… Don't you dare say it…" I spat through clenched teeth and falling tears as I begged the digitally rendered image of my PR agent for mercy.

"He's the best goddamn Ranger that I've ever seen." Chris let that line rumble out in an emotional baritone, and all I could do was choke on my own short and feeble breaths.

"...Now I'm going to move this right along to an event that occurred earlier this year, during Viridian's Venomoth season, and clarify what happened to the six Rangers who died around Zane during that campaign." Chris carried on after a respectful silence had been observed.

"Zane set you straight on that one. Those Rangers were dead long before Zane had even mustered together his rescue unit. Not one officer in Viridian was willing to lead their troops against a swarm of agitated Venomoth for a handful of doomed soldiers. No one would dare take that risk, except for Zane Bastard." Chris continued with his account.

"Zane went into the dust with a three man unit. The three Rangers who braved the swarm under his leadership came home safe and sound. Eleven soldiers who had been given up for dead found themselves with a second lease on life because of Zane's rescue effort. But one Ranger who went into the swarm didn't walk out of the dust. One Ranger chose to stay behind, when he sacrificed his own environmental protection to save a dying comrade." Chris paused again, and Taggart's frightened eyes were already telling of his defeat. The audience hadn't made a whisper for such a long time now, that the world had completely forgotten about them.

Everyone spectating this broadcast was hanging onto Chris's every word, breathlessly waiting for him to confirm their collective suspicion.

"The Ranger who stayed behind in the dust went by the name of Zane Bastard, and in what can only be described as a miracle, that same Ranger is still with us today." Chris's tone had resumed its air of disapproval, as he fixed his disappointed eyes back on the meek and bleeding Taggart.

"...The Crossed Arms is one of the most honored decorations in the Ranger service. That decoration can only be earned through a meritorious act of self-sacrifice. Most recipients of the Crossed Arms are laid to rest shortly after having received that honor. And that same exemplary decoration was in this very room, hanging from the coat pocket of a Lieutenant Zane Bastard." Chris was capitalizing on the silence by slowing his account down to a weighty crawl. Taggart swallowed his adam's apple, and shifted uncomfortably on his sofa.

"...I have listened to the radio recordings of Echo squad's last transmission. I have heard every terrified and helpless word of Echo Commander Bastard. And even though he was scared absolutely witless of the monster chasing after him and his unit, Zane did everything he possibly could to save his soldiers from certain death. Everything he could to save them from the inevitable. And you have the gall to frame your interview like Zane had murdered them himself…" Chris's voice cracked with a barely contained rage.

"...A beating is better than you deserve, Taggart. I can't believe that you did that to a disabled veteran of our armed forces. I can't believe-" Chris was struggling for words, he was so overcome by revulsion.

"...Indigo Four should nail you to the wall for that. You don't deserve to host a talk show. No one deserves to listen to you scream your hatred and radical journalism at them. And Zane most certainly doesn't deserve to be painted like a criminal by your rating obsessed ego. Zane is more than anything you could ever hope to aspire to. Zane is something that you'll never be capable of matching..." Chris was putting the finishing touches on his speech, and people could already hear the epilogue coming. The audience began to chant and cheer as Chris took a deep breath, and boldly stood up from his seat.

"Zane is a goddamn hero, and you are nothing more than a selfish little insect trying to suck your moment of fame out of him." Chris hissed down to a cowering Taggart, and the audience roared their verdict of this interview now turned fact-check. Chris glared lethal disdain at the tiny little man before him, before my PR agent snapped the mic off Taggart's bloodied coat collar, and dropped it on the stage.

The audience's next cheer was absolutely deafening as Chris turned his back on his defeated opponent, and made off for stage left without another word. Leaving Taggart all alone on his sofa, as his now booing audience began to fling their trash at him.

Even though I presently felt like three different brands of festering shit, some small part of me discovered a sense of satisfaction in how this petty injustice had been resolved.

The live feed cut out to Indigo's Channel Four mother station, and I exited the link before Sanandreas could start working her pretty little mouth.

"Well Zane..." Captain Lewis's voice emanated from the Tact. pad's earpiece.

"...It looks like you lucked out again." Captain Lewis sighed in relief.

"...I owe Fuck-Nutts a drink, don't I?" I could barely manage to speak, I felt so goddamn drained.

"I'll let you make the arrangements. Guess who's ringing on my end?" Captain Lewis actually had a hint of smug in her voice when she switched phones.

"..."

"Yeah, we got him."

"..."

"He's still in one piece."

"..."

"I'll forward you to his call."

I heard a new beep on my Tact. pad, and after tapping the accept call tab, a third voice was added to Captain Lewis's and my exchange.

"...You alright, kid?" Chris asked me with a cautious tone.

"No." I answered truthfully, but there was no strength left in my voice to back that truth up.

"...You scared the hell out of me. I thought you were gonna kill him." Chris shuddered on his end.

I couldn't answer that. There was no comforting answer for that.

"...How's Roscoe's mouth?" I numbly asked.

"It stings." Roscoe's grudging voice sounded from Chris's end.

"...Sorry about that." I muttered, as my shame deepened another shade.

"Eh, no biggie. Lou hits way harder than you." Roscoe grumbled. Chris made a short, nervous laugh.

-Fuck-Nutts actually thought that Roscoe was joking around.

"Chris, we need to start working this out now. How much damage do you think this will do to the mission objective?" Captain Lewis pulled the conversation back into official ground with that dire query.

"Damage? Honestly Captain, I don't think we can reverse the damage. Taggart's nose is most certainly broken. That's not going to sit well with empathetic audiences. But if we play our cards right, then we could totally make this work out to our advantage." Chris halted everyone's breath with that one statement.

"How can we turn this around?" Captain Lewis asked. Chris just started laughing.

"It shouldn't be too difficult. Despite all appearances, that interview went beautifully. Zane did his part perfectly, right up until he jumped Taggart, but even then…" Chris drew an excited breath, and you could hear the gloating in his voice.

"We made Taggart look like the instigator. We made him, and Indigo Four, look like veteran shaming bastards. Mark my words, people are going to empathize with Zane far more than they are with Taggart. Not to mention: Zane punching Taggart's face in is going to attract audiences well outside of both the Ranger's and the League's scope. This is going to be big. I don't think this has ever happened before. A controversial talk show host, getting flogged by a disabled veteran on public media? People are going to watch that interview just to see Taggart flailing on the ground beneath Zane's fists!" Chris was losing his head with a gleeful euphoria. And I was feeling a familiar chill when I considered how my destructive outbursts kept coming back to earn me fame.

"This is the Cerulean Crater all over again! This is going to reach further than we could ever have hoped for! People are going to watch that interview! People are going to hear Taggart's bullshit framing! People are going to see Zane lashing out at a malicious asshole! And people are going to love it!" Chris's giddy voice was doing nothing to stop the sick rising up my throat.

"So how do we play this? What all do we need to do?" Captain Lewis was looking for a contingency, not a prediction of victory. Chris cut the chuckles short, and responded with due recourse.

"I already have my media team cutting up the recording. We're focusing on the most obvious tells of Taggart's angle, and we're going to upload the scene where Zane took the house down before anyone else can. The first set of frames from that scene are positioned squarely on Zane's face. We're doctoring up the footage so that it lags on the first thirty frames. Everyone is going to be able to see the tears in Zane's eyes when he jumps Taggart. Everyone is going to see just how much Taggart hurt him." Chris quickly laid out the first step of his plans.

I was ready to puke. This was just sick. So this was how the media worked: Capitalizing on trauma and skewing the portrayal.

-Was there nothing sacred left on this planet of earth?

"We'll let social media blow it out of proportion for us. I'll be knocking down Indigo Four's front door with a demand for an official apology to both the Ranger Corps and to Zane. I'll play it all up by publicly pressing for Taggart's suspension from public broadcasting. But we need to talk strategy on the Ranger Corps' end. We can't just pretend that this didn't happen." Chris was turning the house over to Captain Lewis, and my Captain already had an idea of what needed to be done.

"Zane will be court martialed for assaulting a civilian. We'll drag out the defense and publicize the development for the media's consideration. It will be a staged tribunal. Zane will be pardoned on all indictments, but we need to make the case look good. I want the media to portray Zane's court martial as an injustice against him. How can we make that happen, Chris?" Captain Lewis shared her hand, and Chris approved of its count.

"Easily. We'll present Zane's defense and Taggart's defense side by side. Taggart is going to start by trying to play the victim, and when he's faced with all the animosity that the public is going to throw at him, he's going to jump straight to the offensive. Then we'll show Zane, taking his punishment with dignity. The media will lap it up, and the public will rally against Zane's tribunal. He'll be cast as the honorable victim, and everyone is going to leap to his defense." Chris gave Captain Lewis her answer, and I was left feeling like a tattered sheet fluttering in the wind.

-Did I get a say in any of this?

"...Can we just put me in a cell, and skip all of the drama?" I asked in a feeble voice, and Chris exploded with a new flurry of excitement.

"That's perfect, Zane! That's absolutely perfect! That's how you're going to rationalize your case! The public will love that! I did something wrong, and I don't want to make a scene by denying it! The public will adore you if you maintain that attitude throughout the case!"

-Maybe I didn't want to have a say in it anymore.

"You magnificent bastard… You know, you have a knack for taking shitty situations and making them work out to your favor. You're a fucking natural at this, kid! You deserve a fucking drink! Meet me up at the Argent Rush! It's a little pub-"

"-I know where it is." I cut Chris off with a long dead voice. Everything went silent on the other ends of my call when everybody remembered that I was new to all of this.

This isn't what I signed up for.

I didn't sign up to deceive and manipulate society.

...I still had a beret on my head because I wanted to defend society.

"I'll meet you there in about forty minutes. We're still pretty busy here, dealing with the aftermath and all, but you're going to get through this with flying colors, kid. You haven't let me down yet, and I am not going to leave you hanging a fourth of the way through. Ciao!" Chris hung up with that little tidbit of coaching, and for some unbeknownst reason, for the very first time since I had been introduced to the asshole…

...I actually found myself appreciating old Fuck-Nutts.

"Zane, you have forty minutes to make yourself presentable. I'll send you a notification of your court martial later tonight. Take a moment to relax. You're gonna make it through this, Ranger. And if you need to talk..." Captain Lewis paused, and took a shuddering intake of breath.

"...Then you know my number is always available to you. Over and out." Mary Lewis spoke softly on her end, right before she ended the transmission.

"...Over and out, Captain." I murmured to my silent Tact. pad.

It had all gone wrong. Again. I'd fucked everything up, just like I always had.

And everyone was scurrying to pick up my pieces, and trying to make something even bigger out of them. Yet again.

-This isn't what I wanted.

I never wanted this.

I'm no hero.

...And I was beginning to question whether I was even a Ranger anymore…

"...Don't give up on the Rangers, Zane. We need you, kid."

"...We need you."

"Well Doug…" I murmured, lifting my gaze south, across the stormy sea.

"...They have me. I just hope I don't lose them…" I closed my eyes as I remembered Doug's grinning face again. With a shuddering intake of breath, I adjusted my balmoral, and set off north for a familiar establishment.

The Argent Rush.

AKA: Lt. Surge's pub.

…

I made the bar ten minutes ahead of schedule. It was still pretty early in the afternoon, so apart from a smattering of early bird regulars, The Argent Rush wasn't exactly abuzz with patrons.

That said, I was still pretty shocked to see two familiar faces at the bar, laughing and conversing like old friends.

One was Fuck-Nutts.

The other was Lt. Surge.

I was still reeling from the outcome of the interview, actively wrapping my emotions up and realigning my head, but the sight of those two dissimilar men jaw-jacking with one another brought me to a stunned pause.

"Zane! You're early!" Fuck-Nutts looked up from his bloody mary, and waved me over to the bar.

"I thought you might want to meet the competition, so I pulled a few strings-" Chris began.

"-Good to see you again, Lieutenant." I curtly nodded to Lt. Surge, completely ignoring Chris.

"Likewise, Lieutenant." Lt. Surge extended a massive fist to my person, and I met it with my own knuckles in a cliched display of brotherhood.

-So much for Chris's pulled strings.

"You two have met before?" Chris sounded legitimately startled.

"Lieutenant Bastard and I have been formally introduced." Lt. Surge leaned back behind the bar with a cheesy grin on his face.

And I played into the formal charade.

"It was a couple of days ago. Been keeping well, Lieutenant?" I asked, a shitty smile worn on my face.

"Never better!" Lt Surge chuckled, before sliding an empty snifter my way.

"The usual?" Lt. Surge asked me.

"Naturally." I replied, and an amber liquor filled my snifter.

"...Well… I'm glad you showed up early…" Chris started on a repressed note, disappointed that his little surprise had been thoroughly spoiled.

"Got somewhere to be?" I asked Chris, my tone more or less friendly.

"Yeah, I gotta get back to my office in Saffron ASAP. Things are moving faster than I anticipated, and I need to get a handle on it pronto." Chris confessed, though he sounded plenty excited.

"...You've even saved me the trouble of mediating the introductions, so I'll just have a quick one with you before the flight home. Cheers, Zane." Chris raised his bloody mary to me, and I clinked my scotch against it. My PR agent made to down the dregs of his drink in one gulp, but Chris hesitated when he noticed that I wasn't doing the same.

"You never gulp good scotch, Chris." I explained, taking a neat little sip from my snifter.

"You do when it's on the house!" Lt. Surge chortled, pouring himself a usual, and sliding the bottle across the bar to my elbow.

"To the best of times, the worst of fights, the hottest of whores, and whiskey without ice!" Lt. Surge raised his snifter with a new salute, and every drink in the establishment went sky-high with a cheer.

"Cheers!" Chris shouted out, as the salute's three man lead downed their beverages.

"Cheers." I grunted, washing my throat with a mouthful of scotch.

Taking a moment to gasp past the burning vodka snaring his esophagus, Chris raised his empty glass to me again, before returning it to the bar with the tab.

-Guess my scotch was the only thing on the house.

"Take care, Zane. We'll be in touch." Chris dared to slap my shoulder with a patronizing gesture, before making his way towards the exit with my glowering eye actively burning a hole into the back of his head.

"Cheeky little fruitcake, ain't he?" Lt. Surge chuckled after Chris had left.

"Everytime he does something to endear himself to me, he immediately follows it up by crossing a line…" I growled, furiously brushing my shoulder off.

"Yeah, showmen are good like that." Lt. Surge grunted, topping my snifter off at the midpoint.

"...I take it you have to deal with them too?" I posed, and Lt. Surge made a guttural sound.

"Not as much as I used to, but every now and then, some ambitious greenhorn makes the mistake of trying to tame me." Lt. Surge rumbled.

"I know your pain." I muttered, taking a lick of my fresh scotch.

"In more ways than one." Lt. Surge grunted, bringing a pause to my snifter's ministrations. I fixed a pair of mismatched eyes on my host, but the man who met my gaze was neither wounded nor apologetic. He wore a hardened expression and bore steely eyes.

It wasn't sympathy that Hewitt Jackson desired or offered. Rather, it was acknowledgement and acceptance that he and I chose to exchanged.

"Still don't feel justified, comparing myself to you." I mumbled into my drink. Lt. Surge just laughed, and shook his head.

"Don't do that, Zane." Lt. Surge's voice carried only the barest trace of his previously expressed mirth.

"Do what?" I asked, my voice cautious.

"Don't put me on a pedestal, and make me out to be some kind of hero." Lt. Surge answered.

-I almost dropped my drink in shock.

"You know what I'm talking about. I know you do. I saw your interview. Heroes don't flog men for insulting their departed comrades. That's what soldiers do." Lt. Surge poured himself another scotch, and leaned his colossal elbows on the bar.

"...I'm beginning to see what Lou meant when she said you and I were birds of a feather. Two sorry motherfuckers who didn't pull out when they should've. Two stubborn assholes who were too afraid of losing what was dear to them, to realize that acting out of fear was gonna take it all away from them anyways." Lt. Surge muttered to his bar.

I didn't have anything to say for the lump in my throat, and Lt. Surge didn't seem inclined to expand on the subject at hand. There was nothing more that needed to be said. That one statement of Lt. Surge's had clarified an understanding. A fundamental understanding between himself and I.

"...So now you're stuck in the League too. Welcome to cell block C, inmate. Make yourself as cozy as your conscience will allow." Lt. Surge grunted, shifting track onto something less emotional.

"Sounds like you hate your job." I mumbled, and Lt. Surge just laughed.

"I fucking despise it." Lt. Surge replied, tossing a towel over his shoulder.

"Twenty years of duking it out in the League's Championships, and you're already at the end of your rope?" I asked, a slight smile worn on my lips.

"Twenty years of this loathsome detail? Has it really been that long? Jesus, I've been wrecking house in the League way longer than I ever fought in the fucking war." Lt. Surge chortled, shaking his head at the bar.

"...So why are you still doing it?" I asked in a quiet voice, and Lt. Surge's eyes rose to meet my own.

"...Why are you still doing it?" Lt. Surge asked me with a knowing look.

The only response I could muster was to deeply exhale through my nostrils.

"...Like Lou said, birds of a feather. You'd think that we would've learned the first time." Lt. Surge spat, and slammed a fist into the bar, jouncing my snifter and the lacquered scotch within.

"...Just over twenty years ago, I was sitting almost exactly where you are now. The hopes of a new generation pinned upon my uniformed shoulders; me, the social catalyst in a grand plan to preserve the security of our nation." Lt. Surge muttered, and raised a hairy forearm to wipe the tip of his nose.

I swallowed hard. I shouldn't have been so surprised to learn that all of this had been done before, but when confirmation was coming directly from the mouth of a prior proponent, thoughts of his untold story filled me with a queasy dread.

"I did my part, before wising up. I got them what they wanted, and they gave me what I wanted. And neither they nor I was remotely happy with it." Lt. Surge whispered as he closed his eyes.

I wasn't going to press Lt. Surge for an elaboration.

-I knew that I'd find out what he meant in good time.

"...Some people take to the life, you know? Some people were born to shine. You paint them with a spotlight, and every inch of them glitters like gold. Some people thrive on that shit, love every second of it. And then you have the other kind of people…" Lt. Surge opened his eyes, and shook his head again.

"...When the other kind of people get painted with a spotlight, all they can do is cast a long and bloody shadow…"

My drink found its way back onto the bar, and my eye stared right through the opposing wall.

Lt. Surge knew that feeling even better than I did, and he knew how to convey that awful feeling with words.

"...But comparing yourself to me? Shit son, you've got yourself some big shoes to fill. You had best find your A game fast, and keep it on the extreme, 'cause you are not allowed to blemish my fucking struggle." Lt. Surge snapped out of it with a cocky smile, and I too fell back on the facade with a laugh.

Neither one of us was gonna fool the other, but we both knew how to wear the masks.

-And there was something of a cold comfort to be found in realizing that.

"...Though if I'm to be perfectly honest, you kinda remind me of another individual when it comes to the League. Hell, when I started out, the media had my back. You though? The media seems to have painted a target on your back." Lt. Surge was still reminiscing, and I was more than happy to entertain an old war horse when he was as good as pouring me a free bottle of scotch.

"Who else had a target on their back?" I asked with a jocular smile. Lt. Surge just grinned back, and an evil glint rose in his eyes.

"Why, Enzo Davinci of course."

I almost fell off my stool, and Lt. Surge guffawed at my reaction.

Being compared to a war hero was an audacious compliment, but being compared to a lunatic hippie-?!

"How the hell do I remind you of Enzo Davinci?!" I damn near shouted out my resentment.

"...Well, you're both goofy little bumblefucks for starters-" Lt. Surge began with that nasty grin of his both vivid and wide, and I could only glare cold murder at his smug face.

"-But more to the point, Enzo didn't exactly have it easy in the League either." Lt. Surge cut the bullshit and resumed a serious air.

"How so?" I asked, still a bit sore after the prior comparison.

"...Enzo has… a colorful history. And not just in the League. Everyone gets dealt raw hands of varying degrees in life, and while both you and I got hit with a pair of pretty shitty hands, Enzo got whipped with a similarly shitty hand too." Lt. Surge settle back against a cabinet on his side of the bar.

"Remember me saying that bit about people in spotlights? Well, Enzo cast one big bloody shadow when they put the limelight on him." Lt. Surge carried on.

"You know him?" I asked, curious as to Lt. Surge's relation to Enzo.

"Not personally, no. We may have been Vermilion's hometown favorites back in the 1,064th, but we only ever met twice in the League. Once when Enzo challenged me for my badge, and then again in the second-quota stage of the seasonal finals. He wasn't anything too memorable in the Gym ring during our first match, but when they pulled all the safeties off that boy in the seasonal finals… Gawdamn, he got scary fast." Lt. Surge's eyebrows lifted in awe with the memory.

"You fought Enzo when he made his move for the throne?" I asked, genuinely interested.

"Fought? Shit, you don't fight Enzo Davinci. You just pray that you meet him on a merciful day, 'cause he's gonna smear your ass across the ring like it's foreplay. How much it's gonna hurt all depends on the day." Lt. Surge laughed on a shudder, before shaking away the heebie-jeebies with a nervous look on his face.

"I'll never forget that fucking fight. I swear Enzo was leading me on everytime I thought I'd secured the advantage, 'cause every fucking time, he turned a no-win situation for himself into a guaranteed victory." Lt. Surge was grinning again, his voice layered with a mix of glee and respect.

"One gawdamn mon. One gawdamn mon. Enzo and Tenacious were a match made in hell. Enzo figured every one of us out, called us all on our every bluff, trumped our every ace, unfailingly predicted and countered our every move, and that black dragon of his… Eeeh-fucking-gads…" Lt. Surge fought off another shudder.

"That thing was a fucking surgeon. It knew how to hit, where to hit, when to hit, and it never pulled its punches. Fast as all hell, and stronger than anything else in the finals. It didn't matter how big and tough your mon was, it didn't matter what the terrain was, it didn't matter if you'd claimed the sky, the water, the Distortion, the land and the underground: Tenacious was gonna fucking ruin you, precisely zero fucks given for your upper hand." Lt. Surge seemed to be enjoying this particular memory, and I was curious to learn more about it.

"I've heard about the ol' one-hit-wonder Tenacious. Wracked up the highest kill-count in the Indigo League Seasonal Finals to date." I tossed in what little I knew about Enzo and his infamous mon, fishing Lt. Surge's history for more details.

"That thing was out for blood. Enzo could keep everything but Tenacious's murderlust under control. I honestly don't think that Enzo meant to kill all those mon, 'cause he was apologizing up a storm every time his dragon ripped something's head off." Lt. Surge chuckled to himself.

"I'm surprised that Tenacious didn't kill Enzo. I'll never figure out how that hairy dweeb earned complete and utter compliance from that monster of a dragon." I added my own disbelief to the conversation, and a sudden alertness snapped Lt. Surge back into the present.

"-But that brings me back to my point, Zane. About you and Enzo. Nobody saw Enzo coming. Before the seasonal finals, he was just another starving analyst plying his wits against the League's seasoned vets. Most of the hotshots of the 1,064th had never even heard of Enzo Davinci prior to the seasonal finals. So many prodigies gunning for their Flames, everyone of them sponsored by the League, their names and records worth a fucking fortune in investments… and all of them were brought to absolute shame by a practical nobody who couldn't even be bothered to bring a full deck to the table." Lt. Surge smiled again.

"Enzo kicked my ass, as sure as it's ever been kicked, and I respect him for it. He overcame his own struggle to get where he got, and he pissed off a lot of people getting there." Lt. Surge fixed me with a severe eye, and I offered aught but my rapt attention to this veteran of various battlefields.

"...Do you know what a 'system' is Zane?" Lt. Surge asked me.

-A system? Oh, do I ever...

"Yeah, and I'm getting more familiar with 'systems' every fucking day." I growled the last, none too happy with my own admission. Lt. Surge shook his head in distaste, before carrying on with the lecture.

"Well, the League is a 'system'. Unrealistic motherfuckers think that it's all about coordinating Pokemon battles for entertainment's sake. Just one dramatic fight after another. That ain't even half of the system. That ain't even a fourth of it. That's just for the public allure. The media, the provincial government, the highest rungs of the private sector… They're all invested in the League's system, because the League's system is damn good at making money for its investors." Lt. Surge was a hair away from sounding like a paranoid conspiracy theorist, but I knew where he was going with this.

-Dad had taught me that much about business, right before he booted my ass out the door.

"I'm not saying it's completely rigged, so to speak. There's always openings for up and comers in the League. Afterall, it's good business sense to keep your books flexible. But the League and their investors pick and choose their favorites, and they dump money into those favorites, expecting their investments to pay off tenfold." Lt. Surge was talking a familiar line of dialogue now, and I had an inkling as to where he was taking the explanation.

"...And Enzo crashed their market. He didn't enter the finals with a Silph Co. logo and sponsorship. He didn't have a multi-million Sandz asking price. He didn't put a collar around his neck, and auction his leash off to the highest bidder. He came in with nothing. Just himself, his brains, and one gawdamn mon… And that was all he needed to make every one of those multi-million Sandz sponsorships worth absolute shit." Lt. Surge donned a demeaning grin as he continued.

"All those investments: all that League time, money, and effort for naught. And you have Enzo Davinci to thank for crashing their system." After that statement, I realized that Lt. Surge didn't just respect Enzo Davinci.

-Lt. Surge admired him.

"But the market bounced back. I mean, Enzo only competed in the finals for a single season. And I hate to say it, but in the grand scheme of things, a couple million Sandz worth of investment isn't all that big of a loss-" I began on a morale bruising note, but Lt. Surge cut me off with a laugh.

"You're missing the big picture, Zane. True, the market did bounce back, and the wealthy fucks with a couple billion Sandz to spare barely felt the loss, but Enzo changed the game. A lot of people give him no end of flak for backing out of the final fight, but they fail to realize that was where he was at his most genius. Do you understand what Enzo did when he snubbed Lance in the post-finals?" Lt. Surge was grinning hard.

"...Not really, no." I stated, completely nonplussed.

"Enzo took a shit on the League when he walked out. Left a big steaming pile of shit right under their noses. I don't believe for a second that Enzo bailed for a box of fucking donuts. That was just the icing on the cake for him, forgive the pun. Nobody knows exactly why Enzo pulled out of the League, but when he pulled out, he left a mark. A deep mark. You see, all those investors who'd lost their returns when Enzo stole the spotlight from their favorites? They were slitting each other's throats in the following rat race to get their logo on Enzo's coat. How high do you think the final bid for Enzo's sponsorship was?" Lt. Surge asked me.

"Fifty million." I tossed out a random figure that I found high enough to be considered ludicrous.

-And Lt. Surge just laughed in my face.

"Zane, we're talking about the future League Champion here. Back then, there wasn't a doubt in anybody's mind. Lance was on his way out. One fight was all that separated the Dragon King from his involuntary retirement. Enzo was a blank card, no prior commitments, no former contracts, no strings attached to his person. Do you even know what the League Champion can do in the gawdamn senate?" Lt. Surge asked me, an incredulous look on his face.

"-The Veto." I replied, suddenly realizing the significance of what I'd just said.

"Gawdamn right, the fucking Veto! Now tell me what that, and that alone is worth, without including the Margin Call or related marketable products that come with owning the most influential sportsman in the Indigo Confederacy?" Lt. Surge laid it out in basic verbiage.

"...You can't put a pricetag on that much power." I whispered, praying that I was right.

"The hell you can! Shit, Indigo's ten-sixty-fourth spawned an opposing pair of multi-corporate agglomerates just to get the auction into the six-billion Sandz range!" Lt. Surge was grinning ear to fucking ear when he voiced that terrible revelation.

Was I surprised? Hell no. Disgusted? Absolutely. Worried that something of the sort could happen again, and a group of unscrupulous individuals could secure a solid foothold in my nation's political system?

-I was damn near pissing my pants in fear of what a recurrence of that event could mean for my nation's wellbeing.

"And do you know what Enzo said to the final bid?" Lt. Surge was getting something giddy as he approached the climax. I could only shake my despondent head in numb resignation.

"-I'll pass. Thanks anyways." Lt. Surge quoted, his intonation casual enough to claim takeout.

My jaw dropped to the bar.

-Enzo Davinci had turned down six-billion Sandz and a lofty position of power and fame?!

"Snubbed them all for a box of donuts! I love that wacky sonuvabitch!" Lt. Surge slammed his palm against the bar, cackling his blond head off.

"You wanna talk about heroes?! Enzo motherfucking Davinci is my hero! Just for that! Just for wiping his ass with the best that the League and their investors could offer! The legal fallout of those failed corporate mergers ruined more than one corrupt billionaire! And we're not even talking about how Chimera Industries drove another nail into their system when Enzo's mon became the League's new meta! He's mindfucked the best of the mindfuckers at every interval, and they'll never be able to take his noncommittal ass down!" Lt. Surge drew a deep, calming breath through his grinning maw, and settled back into a levelheaded bartender with one final chuckle.

"That's where I'm going with this, Zane. You've clearly got a cutthroat methodology and an honor code. You've got bundles of brains, mountains of resolve, an unsuspecting degree of charm, and you know how to fight dirty and get away with it. But you belong to the Ranger Corps, and no sales pitch will ever change that. The League looks at you, and all they can see is the second coming of Enzo Davinci. You're not a part of their system, but you're still winning their game. What could you do to Indigo's top caste if you actually took the League Throne?" Lt. Surge had dropped another heavy weight on my shoulders with that remark, yet this was a burden that I could comfortably bear.

Suddenly, I wasn't left feeling like someone else's aimless pawn. Suddenly, I didn't feel like a ship lost at high sea.

Suddenly, I had a clear and distinct goal to aim for, and just as I begun this mission with a grudging confidence in my capabilities…

...So too could I embrace this new destination with that same grim determination.

That clicked. That was exactly what I needed. For so long now, I'd played the soldier's role. Yes sir, no sir, right away sir… I had only just realized that I was adrift without a hand on the tiller or a wind in my sails.

I now knew my bearings. I now knew where I stood in this quagmire. I still didn't have a hope in hell of figuring my way out of it, but now…

...Now I knew where I wanted to go.

"Look kid, the way I see it, there's a chain around your neck." Lt. Surge's voice dipped low for this personal address, and I leaned over the bar to better hear his quiet voice.

"You can let the fucks on the other end of that chain drag you to their destination, you can dig your heels in and fight a losing battle the whole way… Or you can figure out how to turn the leash around, and lead the fucks to your destination." Lt. Surge whispered.

"...Don't be the next Lance Drakengard. He sold his soul when he put that chain around his neck, and permitted them to drag his ass around like a dog. Don't be the next Lieutenant Jackie Surge. He fought for a lost cause his whole life, and now he's too far gone to save. Be the next Enzo Davinci. He at least, was smart enough to pull out before the shit got too deep…" Lt. Surge sighed on the last bit, and this fresh hope of mine wavered.

"We can't pick every battle we fight, and soldiers have always had even less of a say in the matter than most folk; but half of the fight is the terrain, and the other half is the sorry bastard standing opposite you. Use the terrain to your advantage. Challenge the rules; change the game; and conquer the system." Lt. Surge muttered.

"Lieutenant Jackson." I stood up off my stool, my back straight and shoulders tight. Lt. Surge looked up at me with a curious quirk in his eye.

"If I may propose another toast?" I respectfully requested of my host. Lt. Surge responded with a smile and a pair of loaded snifters.

"And what should we drink to, Lieutenant Bastard?" Lt. Surge asked me, raising his drink from the bar.

"To my impending victory in our Gym battle, of course." I replied, lifting my own drink in proposition for the toast.

"To the bush monkey's victory!" Lt. Surge shouted, and every serviceman in the bar sounded out with an awkward off-key cheer.

"To a decrepit old skinhead's retirement!" I shouted, and every serviceman in attendance leapt to their feet, ready to flog this lone Ranger senseless for his heresy and disrespect.

"Hell, I can drink to that!" Lt. Surge roared, slamming his snifter against mine with a toast that sloshed the better half of our drinks across the bar. Downing what was left in our snifters, my host poured a fresh round. That second round tasted even better than the first, and third tasted even better than the second. Come the fourth, we'd both stopped tasting everything but the fumes, and the bemused servicemen had returned to their booths, content with spectating their hero as he proceeded to drink my ass under the table.

And even come the morning after, and the outrageously painful hangover that accompanied it…

...I still couldn't find it in me to regret a damn thing I'd done the previous day.

-.-

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

…

Author's Note: Oh my God. That wasn't quite as painful to write as I feared it would be. 'Course I'm writing this author's note pre-edit, so there's a possibility of foot-in-mouth coming my way shortly.

Hey guys. It's Vile, obviously. Stop reading now if you're already losing interest.

...Still reading? Damn, you're almost as boring as me.

Anyhow, as promised: here's the next belated installment of TSoK. I know, I know, merry christmas, happy hannukah, blessed bar mitzvah, capricious kwanzaa, whatever. It's the holidays, and no, I didn't plan for a December release. It just so happened that I finally mustered up the courage to take a crack at writing the Interview on one cold and grey winter day.

I also wanted to take a moment of your time, time of yours that I'll never return, to express my gratitude to you all.

As you may have noticed, I had a bit of crisis going down last update. I may have intimately expressed myself to a gaggle of complete internet strangers, but I felt as though I owed my viewers an explanation.

It got a little deep; maybe it went a little too far; maybe it made some people feel awkward as they spectated a literal stranger spilling his guts out in an fanfiction author's note, but I don't regret sharing that with you. At least not overly much.

C'mon. It's nothing against you guys. It's just that nobody likes feeling weak.

So I've had some time for reflection. So I decided to re-access myself and my place in the world. Not that I really have a "place" in the world beyond any hole that I claim as my own, but yeah…

I took a deeper look at myself, and everything that matters to me, and attempted to explain myself to myself.

It's really not as easy as it sounds. I tried to be impartial with myself, but I'm only human. Bias isn't something anyone can so readily disconnect from.

I'm not really going into detail about the little trip I took into my own ego, but upon returning from Me-land, I decided that I owed you guys a little more of an explanation. Given the amount of support I've received from like minded viewers, it only seemed fitting that I had another heart-to-heart with you.

Fireside talks, except heated with natural gas, not a woodstove. Woodstoves dry out the air no matter how much water you boil, and I don't like waking up to a gushing nosebleed. Or to pillowcases that look like they were used as props in John Carpenter's The Thing.

Well… Where to begin?

...How about the story? How about this chapter?

How about this interview?

Yes, I want to discuss this interview. This interview was planned before the plot revision, shortly after TH's introduction and before the Pewter City Gym match.

It was something that I was always working on in the background, something that I was always working towards.

And believe it or not, Zane punching Taggart in the face wasn't originally planned. That route appealed to me earlier this year, when I first started drafting the interview out. Then I got cold feet, second guessed my writing capabilities, and elected to write AROUND the interview, going as far as to get a healthy start on Book II's Chapter 2, and even writing out Book III's prologue.

Which is pretty indicative of my chaotic layout, but then again, writing is a funny exercise. It always starts with an idea; that idea is then given characteristics that amalgamate as a personality; as that idea encounters other ideas, its personality develops and evolves, as the idea reshapes itself in order to persist in the ecosystem that supports it.

But that idea and its personality is unique to the individual that conceived it. That personality can only develop so much as an idea. After a certain point, that idea needs to evolve into something new, something a bit more tangible than an idea.

That idea needs to develop into a story, otherwise it fades away into the ether of its conception.

And once that idea becomes a story, that story is no longer unique to the individual that realized it.

That story becomes a world, and that world is there for any who choose to claim it.

I've often commented on how TSoK just… wrote itself. How the cast burst into vivid life, and seized the pen from my hands; how the character Zane put me in the corner and ordered me to write his biography…

It's a bit of a romantic exaggeration, but the described sentiment of awe was most certainly present. I don't view TSoK as MY story.

...I see TSoK as the story of the characters it introduces.

Which brings me back to the interview. When I first conceived of the interview, I was writing a very different TSoK. I wasn't following the political discourse of the US's 2016 Presidential Elections yet, because 2016 was still a year away.

When I chose to include an interview in TSoK's narrative, I focused on exploring the Ranger's world, and how it clashed with the rest of TSoK's world. Originally, Taggart was going to list off a fantastical info-dump of historical trends and statistics in an effort to discredit the Ranger Corps, and Zane was going to defend the Corps from Taggart's criticism by listing off his own counter-fantastical info-dump of historical trends and statistics.

It was really boring, but at the time, it was what appealed to me.

Then 2016 came and went, and suddenly, I couldn't give a shit less about a fantastical debate being carried out by fictitious characters in a bloody fan fiction.

Suddenly, I was far more concerned with making TSoK relevant to the real world, than I was with justifying TSoK's world to the real world.

The 2016 election was a hard beast to follow. I've never exhausted myself transitioning from terminally depressed to euphoric in the span of an hour, sworn to never watch a presidential debate again, and then repeated the whole process the very next day. I spent days of my life digging into sources that would prove irrelevant months down the line, fact-checking every claim made by every proponent, learning more and more about the future US president, and using that data to determine who was best suited to the role in this modern era.

Needless to say, my guy didn't win. Neither did my second pick. As a matter of a fact, two of the worst candidates made both party nominations, and I had to turn to third party nominees just to experience the barest sliver of hope again.

As clarified in great detail last update, I was devastated at the outcome. Given the choice between a turd sandwich and a giant douche, I found myself longing for cyanide.

But that was then, and this is now. I look back on the whole fiasco as an experience. A mostly unpleasant experience, but there were some genuine glimmers of lasting hope in that cesspool of political fuckery.

We may have lost 2016, but so did the victors. It's not like our leadership has done anything to normalize their radical ideology. If anything, all the toxic human beings they dragged up from the depths of society has made it easier to identify the threats to civilization. Pacifists, who were once silent, have discovered that their voices are every bit as powerful as the bigots.

And we've also discovered that while there is a sizable community of xenophobic elitists in our culture, they're just the obnoxious minority, too ignorant to realize that the rest of the world shuns them for their prejudice.

So let them stir the pot, let them make an even bigger mess. They're only further ostracizing themselves from society. They're only inspiring more people to take a stand against injustice.

Hey, we wouldn't try to cure cancer if it wasn't trying to kill us. Human society needs a good hard kick in the tail every once in awhile, just to provide us with motivation.

But if you haven't noticed, the events of 2016 influenced TSoK quite a bit. And the interview is just more evidence of that.

For those of you naive to the ways of American media practices, I extend to you my warmest envy. I know from raucous discussions held with "sensible" Germans (pre-2016), that both society and its media innately understand what's best for everyone, because social welfare for all is the founding principle of their society.

Unfortunately, here in the US… Our media and society aren't quite as sensible as many Europeans are environmentally led to believe.

...Obviously.

Our media is every bit as corrupt as our politics. Which is abnormally corrupt, as a Dutch friend has repeatedly informed me.

I'm sure he's referencing the Netherlands as a comparison. We've still got it pretty good compared to Somalia.

If you're remotely curious as to what American society considers valid news, tune in to FOX and watch an episode of Sean Hannity or Tucker Carlson. They're both extreme examples, but a considerable portion of our society actually views them as unbiased news sources.

I'm not saying liberal media is any better. Anderson Cooper and Wolf Blitzer both possess faces that I'd like to see punched, but they're generally more subtle than FOX's loudmouthed and self-conceited idiots.

But this brings it all back to TSoK's Interview, in a very circuitous and disjointed way.

I drew inspiration for Taggart's character and his mannerisms from American shock jocks. You can probably detect traces of Bill O'Reilly in his bullshit smug attitude.

Zane punching Taggart in the face is a projection of my desire to right a couple of wrongs in the US's media, government, and society; pure and simple. It wouldn't accomplish anything meaningful long-term, and the ones I'd seek to oust would undoubtedly empower themselves with their rabid fanbases, further cementing their roles as the malignant tumors of our society, but...

...You have to admit, it would feel so damn good to see Hannity crying over a busted lip.

Which is why Taggart exists; so I don't wind up acting out these less than beneficial desires in real life. Instead, I can create a character who resembles Tucker Carlson. And then I can have another character beat the living bejeezus out of him in an environment where it is legally condonable.

...And that was where Taggart's character began, roughly six months ago.

It wasn't until Zane actually met Taggart that I realized how wrong I was about my fantastical pursuit of vindication.

...Like I said before, TSoK isn't my world. It belongs to Zane, to Theron, to Taggart, to Looker, to Captain Lewis, to Colonel Howes, and yes, it even belongs to Amber; Rest in Peace, you neurotic bitch…

I didn't feel that desirable sense of vindication when I wrote the Interview scene.

All I felt was Zane's emotion. All I felt was his confusion and hurt.

All I felt was tragedy, not relief.

So maybe the projection failed. Or maybe it showed me that exacting retribution is never a clear-cut process. It's not just anger followed by instant relief. There's a whole lot of emotion between the epoch and the conclusion.

I should've already known this, given how long I've been on this earth, but sometimes we need to learn the same lessons in different schools to truly understand what it is we're being taught.

Maybe punching someone in the face would feel vindicating to spectate, but to be the aggressor in such a situation?

I think I know better now.

And this kind of experience, this kind of lesson learned in the development of a story?

That's the entire reason why I write.

You can learn a lot about yourself, and the world that surrounds you in writing. So much to the point that I feel obligated to admit that I'm not a Doctor of Zoology, a licensed Geologist, or a Quantum Physicist; as flattering as some of you people's curiosity has been.

I only developed a (very, very, very basic) understanding of zoology and Quantum Physics because of my interests in literature. Because I have an obsession with testing plausibility.

Because I'm never satisfied with the first answer to "why."

So a PhD wielding fanfiction author I am not.

And this in turn, brings me to why I've chosen to share this long-winded and messy Q&A reflection with you.

Because I want you to write.

No pressure implied; no need to take me overly seriously. I truthfully enjoy writing. I've learned more through writing than I ever did in school.

But my goal in life, the reason for why I continue to live after I've relinquished all fear of death, has been obscure to me for so very long.

Long story short, I live because I have nothing better to do; and while I still live, I intend to enjoy myself as much as I am able.

In getting to know myself a little better over the years, I've discovered that I not only enjoy learning, but teaching as well.

One of the greatest pleasures I've had on this site, isn't perusing the poorly written hatemail in my account inbox for a cheap laugh, surprising as that may sound.

It's been offering assistance to writers in need, be it proofreading, providing criticism, or just getting those creative juices flowing by bouncing ideas off each other.

It's awed me to no end, watching correspondents develop in both their literary styles and interests, seeing badly written slash fics transcend into lyrical novels. And more often than not, I didn't have to teach them jack. They just discovered it in their own way, same as I did.

You guys know who you are. No, I haven't forgotten about any of you. Silence is just my preferred MO.

But I want everyone who has a story to tell, to take just a moment to write a verse, a paragraph, a chapter, a character bio…

...Introduce yourself to your own idea. See if it grows and develops independently of you.

Then see if it too, seizes the pen from your hands, and writes its story for itself.

It's an incredible feeling. It's a fantastic adventure.

It can be a life-altering event.

If I could share one thing with the world, if I could give one thing to every man, woman, and child on this planet…

...It would be that feeling of wonderment you'll only ever know, when you watch your dreams come to life.

Thank you, for your continued interest in this story. This is Vile Slanders, wishing you all a holiday-jingle free season. Bah-humbug.